Wow! Itīs been forever since Iīve updated my journal. Since coming back from the jungle a week ago, Iīve been in La Paz dealing with some boring practical things, so I havenīt had a chance to write. But here goes...

    My trip to the jungle began a bit inauspiciously, with a 4-hour delay at the airport. The woman at the ticket desk told us that it had rained in Rurrenabaque (the town most visitors use as a base for visiting the rainforest) and that we would have to wait for the run-way to dry out. I had almost given up hope of flying that day, but on my way back from the bathroom, I spotted an announcement saying that our flight was boarding. I ran to the gate with Julia and James, a British couple I met in Copacabana. We arrived puffing and out of breath, only to be told to wait 30 more minutes. Once our tiny 12-seater plane took off, it was hard not to feel vertigo. The plane was sleek and new and the pilots obviously competent, but on such a small plane, we could feel every tiny movement. I couldnīt suppress a twinge of fear as we flew through thick grey clouds over the Andes, our little plane rocking the whole way. When we arrived in Rurrenabaque, I was surprised to see that the "runway" was nothing but a strip of treeless dirt and grass. No wonder we had to wait for it to dry out!

    When we stepped off the plane, every sense informed me that I was somewhere very different from La Paz. Emerald green trees stretched as far as I could see. My ears were full of the sound of buzzing insects. I felt the heavy, humid tropical air on my skin and tasted it in my mouth. I knew I was in for an adventure. Two days later, I had booked a 4-day trek through the protected rainforest in Parque Nacional Madidi.

    Day 1 of the trek began with a 3-hour boat ride down the Rio Beni to our basecamp. When we climbed up the steep landing to our campsite (which wasnīt really a campsite so much as a little house with beds and screen in the windows in place of glass), my first impression was a good one: butterflies everywhere! One was so large that I mistook it for a hummingbird until it landed on the ground and flapped its neon blue wings in the sunshine. I felt as if I had leaped back into a second-grade science lesson. I saw the "eyes" on their wings to fool predators and watched them lick the sweat off the back of another travelerīs rucksack. When I finally tore my eyes off the spectacle of the butterflies, I spotted something else straight out of National Geographic: leaf-cutter ants. They marched rows of ten, bright green leaves sticking into the air like shark fins. My guide said that they also eat tents and clothing. There were so many new things to see and I hadnīt even left camp yet!

    After a quick lunch, it was time for a first jungle walk. I left with Maria, my fellow trekker, and Mario, our guide. Maria, a journalist, deluged our guide with questions, most of which were "can I touch or eat that?" Occasionally the answer was "no, because it will kill you" and occasionally the answer was "yes," but most often, Mario replied "no, because it will make you itch, swell, and/or break out in boils." I didn't touch anything unless specifically instructed to do so. I was amazed at how well protected most of the forest plants were -- quite a few trees were covered with poisonous spines.

    We devoted a large portion of our first walk to stalking several varieties of forest pigs. None of our attempts were very successful. The pigs were easily frightened, and when they ran, the sound of trees and branches snapping under their hooves frightened Maria and me. We would jump involuntarily, which would startle the pigs mroe, which made them run faster, which made us jump again... you get the picture. After a couple hours, I was thoroughly exhausted with stalking the pigs. When Mario pulled me forward and put a finger to his lips, I repressed a sigh of frustration. I wanted to scream "I donīt care about the pigs!" but instead I obediently hunkered behind a fallen log. I was immediately glad I did. The first thing I saw was a long, slender snout. The creature was the size of a large dog, but it hunkered low to the ground, moving like a cat. Its fur was sleek and shiny as if it had just been brushed. It was an anteater. I would never have guessed such an animal to be beautiful, but it was. Slowly, gracefully, without noticing us, it inserted its long snout into a log not far from us. Feeling incredibly privileged, we watched it eat until it slunk into the trees again. As soon as it was gone, the calm was broken by Mariaīs shouts of "Ay! Ay! Ay!" Then I remembered another second-grade science fact: anteaters like to eat stinging poisonous ants. You can guess what were running over our feet and into our pants! It took Mario ten minutes to carefully brush them off each of us. Mariaīs ankles were swollen with ant bites, but I escaped with only one or two, maybe because I had the sense not to provoke them by jumping up and down and slapping my legs wildly.

    We returned to base camp a few hours later, ate dinner, and chatted with people from another trekking group. When it was dark, it was time to go out again. How could I have thought it was difficult to walk during the day? This time, in addition to fighting vines on the ground, cobwebs overhead, and branches sticking out at odd angles, we had to contend with the darkness as well. As I extricated myself from dozens of tangled vines and bushes, I felt like a real adventurer. In between stumbling through underbrush, I stopped to observe the strange insects Mario highlighted with his flashlight. Most were spiders. I felt proud of myself as I examined them curiously -- not long ago, I would have run screaming from these massive 8-legged creatures, but now I stopped to inspect them carefully. The coolest one was about half the size of my palm and looked like it was wearing bright-yellow battle armour. After about 30 minutes of walking, we reached a clearing split by a tiny stream. Round grey stones gleamed in the light of the full moon. Using his flashlight, Mario showed us big frogs frozen like statues and nearly indistinguishable from the nearby rocks. In the distance, we saw crocodiles' eyes gleaming in the darkness. They were bright red.

    The next morning, we rose early. Maria and I packed all our things. We would be camping from here on out. The morning was a quick introduction to Bolivian labor law (or, to be more accurate, the lack thereof). Mario was carrying a load nearly as big as he was. In place of a backpack, he had a harness made from jeans. His wife Fatima, who would be our cook, had not fared better. Spotting a massive bag of pots dangling from Mario's back, Maria asked why he was bringing so much cookware for two people. It wasn't for us, he explained. The tour agency just wanted it carried back to Rurrenabaque and didn't want to pay the shipping fee. Later, we learned that neither Mario nor Fatima will receive a bonus for taking us trekking even though it's much more difficult than taking us on walks around the base camp. What's more, they're charged an outrageous fine if they lose so much as a fork and if anyone complains about the trip, the won't be paid.

    After Mario manages to lift his heavy gear, we begin. Hacking away with his machete, Mario makes a trail for us as we go. We crawl under and over fallen logs, careful not to stick our feet in the bushes lest we antagonize the spiders and ants living inside them. About every twenty minutes, we cross a stream by carefully walking across fallen logs. Sometimes we grabb vines hanging overhead; other times Mario cuts a poll which we use to keep balance. Once I grab a cane for support and it snaps in two. I fall ankle-deep into a murky stream. My shoes are full of mud, but with all the biting insects around, I'm not about to change into sandals. About an hour in, we see our first jaguar tracks. Mario says that jaguars won't attack people in groups, but he cuts down a reed and makes a whistle anyway. Blowing the whistle will alert it to our presence. This doesn't sound desirable to me, but Mario explains that we would really, really not want to startle a jaguar. Further down the trail, we spot two sets of tracks, one big and one little. Mario says it's a mama jaguar and her baby and blows the whistle a little more often.

    At lunchtime, we hit a small snag. There is no lunch. Just bread, and jam if we want it. Mario and Fatima exchange nervous looks and explained that most of what they're carrying isn't food for us -- it's stuff the tour agency wants back in Rurrenabaque. Luckily, I had eaten a large breakfast but I'm feeling a little worried about food for the rest of the trip. I need more than bread for lunch if I'm going trekking. Maria and I exchange our own nervous looks and ask what we'll be eating for dinner. Fatima says that we have a bag of rice, a bag of beans, a can of mushrooms, a can of peas, a can of sausage, and a bag of cookies. This is food for 4 people for 3 days? Then Maria comes up with another good question: are there tents? No, it turns out there are not. There are mosquito nets and two tarps -- one to hang over us and one to lay under us. Maria and I chat in English, feeling sort of guilty for using a language that Mario and Fatima can't understand. We agree that foodless, tentless trekking is an adventure for 1 day but a horror story if we do it for 3. We demand to be returned to the base camp tomorrow, and Mario readily agrees. I can't help but feel proud of myself for how I handled the situation. A year ago, I might have panicked or thrown a fit, but this time I didn't -- I thought of a solution, and when I knew it would be carried out, I decided to view the rest of the day as an interesting story in the making.

    Sighting a macaw was the highlight of the second afternoon. It was the only animal that didn't seem frightened of us. Sitting in the canopy 80 feet above us, it stared at us as hard as we stared at it. It was twice as big as the parrots you see in pet stores, blue on top, and yellow on bottom. When it grew tired of ogling us, it burst into flight. All I could see were bright yellow feathers spread out against the blue sky. It was over in a few seconds, but the image will remain engraved in my mind forever. I've never seen a macaw doing anything but performing tricks at the zoo. Seeing this beautiful bird spread out in flight, I felt a wave of pity for its cousins reduced to circus animals.

    At five, we reach a small clearing and put our bags down. Mario scavenges logs for the cook fire and then goes in search of water. All day, he's shown us vines and palm trees full of water, but now it seems he can't find any -- he returns an hour later with just enough water to cook the rice and fill Maria's water bottle. Thankfully, I brought my own 2 liter bottle, so I still have plenty to drink. Better yet, my water is clear and I'm certain it won't give me dysentery.

    As night falls, Mario chops down a few saplings to make the poles that will support our tarp and mosquito nets. With a sinking feeling, I wonder what will happen if trekking here becomes popular and every guide hacks away at the trees to make a campsite. It can't be good for the forest. At the same time, I feel terrible for Mario. How much work to make one camp site! And if we had continued with the trekking program, he would have had to do this for 3 times! I would gladly help, but there is only one machete and I have a feeling that Mario's concept of gender relations doesn't include having women chop down trees for you.

    It is dark by the time I crawl under my mosquito net. I'm glad to know I'm going back to the comparatively plush beds in the base camp, not to mention its three square meals a day, but I feel incredibly grateful to spend this night in the jungle. My ears are full of strange sounds I can't even describe. But in the middle of the night-time cacophony, I pick out one familiar sound: cockatiels. I had two when I was a kid. I find their call reassuring in the middle of such an isolated, unfamiliar place. Even though it's pitch black outside, it's only 8 o'clock: much too early for bed. By the light of a candle, I lie in my sleeping bag reading Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire in Spanish. This requires a bit of juggling, seeing as my sleeping bag, mosquito net, and book are all quite flammable. Still, I manage to escape with a tiny burn on my finger and a couple puddles of wax inside my book. Reading in jungle, in another language, is a surreal experience. Part of me feels like I'm back in 3rd or 4th grade, when I first began to love reading. I used to sit on my parents' couch, book in one hand, dictionary in the other, guessing the meaning of unfamiliar words and looking them up if I saw them often enough. This is exactly what it's like to read in Spanish - I know what's happening, but there are a thousand new words to learn and I can't look up all of them. But even in the midst of my favorite activity, I can't shut out the sound of the jungle around me (and wouldn't want to). The result is an experience that feels both incredibly alien and incredibly familiar. Even after I finish reading, I lay awake for hours. With my candle out, the darkness is complete and it's hard not to find the sounds a little sinister. Over and over again, I swear I hear people walking past our "tent," but I know it can't be human footsteps I'm hearing. With great effort, I drive thoughts of the Blair Witch Project from my head. I desperately need to pee, but I wait for the sounds to die down -- what if one of those creatures wants to eat me?

    On the third day, we walk back to camp, arriving before lunch. We do a lot more pig-stalking. Sigh. Maria has worked herself into a fury about the lack of food, the lack of the tent, and the number of things that will bite her and decides to return to Rurrenabaque early. I can't say that I'm sorry to see her go - she was constantly whining about being tired, scared, itchy, or something else. Now there are only three of us in the base camp - me, a teacher named Beth, and her teenage brother Tyler. We spend the afternoon chatting and listening to the sound of the nearby river.

    On our last day in the jungle, Mario takes me, Beth, and Tyler on a short but fruitful walk. Only ten minutes in, we see a massive condor sitting in the tree directly above us. It turns around and around, flapping its black wings in the sun. Mario stops every 10 minutes to point out a new medicinal plant. Once, he touches a hairy orange caterpillar and his knee swells to twice its normal size. Beth and I want him to go back to camp, but he disappears into the forest for a few minutes and returns with a plant to heal his inflamed leg. He rubs the ordinary-looking green leaves across his skin and the angry welts and they disappear. Later, when he is bitten by a spider, he cuts a green furry fungus of a tree. That bite mark disappears too. It seems that the forest contains a cure for every poison lurking inside it. It's like one unified life form. Death in life, life in death. Trees die and become food for mushrooms and ants. Silvery mushrooms that look like jellyfish grow from tapir poop. Nothing goes to waste. I feel awe in the presence of Mario's vast knowledge of the forest. I wonder how many generations have passed down these tricks and cures.

    The afternoon of fourth day turns out to be the best and I feel smug that I stuck around for it instead of going back early. After lunch, we pack our things and board the boat that will carry us back to Rurrenabaque. Thirty minutes down the river, we stop amid a jumble of 10-foot tall reeds. This, to me, is the jungliest part of the jungle. The tall plants block out the light and the humidity makes sweat drip off our bodies. The harsh cries of the macaws overhead makes the place feel like a bizarre tropical version of "Children of the Corn." That impression is instantly dispelled when we reach a clearing in front of a small mountain. Its face is completely flat and riddled with holes. Scarlet macaws fly in and out, always in pairs, bringing food and straw back to their nests. I feel privileged once again -- how many people get to see these majestic birds in their natural habitat?

    Twenty minutes later, to my surprise, I am climbing up this mountain. There is no path, and thanks to the recent rains, it's all mud. Grasping branches and vines, I manage to hoist myself twenty feet before I slide down ten. Luckily, the way isn't steep and the mud is soft, so there's no chance of hurting myself. I remember that my first international trip was a mere year ago and that my first camping trip only 2 weeks ago. Then I think back to my quiet high school self and it doesn't seem possible that this is my life! I'll bet the people who used to say I had no personality never pictured me hauling myself up a mountainside with nothing to hold onto but roots and vines. Halfway up, I get frustrated with falling down and seriously consider quitting. Then reason takes hold and I remember that I made it over the Inca Trail -- surely I can do this! Before I know it, I am at the top of the mountain with the whole emerald green jungle spread out before me. Scarlet macaws soar below me, their wings tipped with stripes of brilliant blue and green. It is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Covered with mud from head to toe, I sit down to drink in the view. I never want to leave, partly because I know what a chore it will be to climb down.

    Mario goes down before me, telling me exactly where to put my feet. Sometimes he actually grabs my foot and plants it in the right place. I descend slowly and carefully, laughing at myself all the way. It is a little embarassing to need this much help, but I can't deny that the sight of me slipping down a mountain, covered in filth, is pretty funny. To my surprise, I only fall once, and only because Mario somehow hit me in the head with his shoe.

    Back on the boat, I think the trip is over, but Mario has one more surprise in store for us. The boat pulls over in front of a jumble of smooth, white boulders. We carefully walk over them till we reach the ones that Mario shows us. They are covered with ancient Inca carvings. Eduardo, the other guide, runs his fingers appreciatively over one of them, whispering "how old this must be!" His reverence adds to the specialness of the moment. I feel the same sense of privilege I felt while watching the anteater and the macaws -- how often will I have the opportunity to see ancient artifacts like this without protective glass and rows of souvenir stalls? I climb back into the boat feeling amazingly lucky.

    Saying goodbye to the jungle is not nearly as difficult as saying goodbye to Macchu Picchu. When the boat pulls into the harbor at Rurrenabaque, I practically leap out. There is a shower waiting for me! I had no idea I could be this filthy. Every time I touch my hair, I pull another twig or seed or leaf from it. When I take off my tank top before getting into the shower, what I thought was a tan line turns out to be a layer of dirt. I wash every part of my body 3 times before I finally pronounce myself clean. I feel ecstatic to be going back to La Paz the next day -- there will be electricty there! and toilets that flush! and shops and stores and restaurants and cars! The jungle was amazing, but I do love civilization...

~Meredith